


dream on a bed of knives

by singmyheart



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Rope Bondage, complicated adult emotions, mix yourselves a cocktail lads it's a mood piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singmyheart/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: Typical John, to throw her with a straightforward question when she wasn’t expecting it.
Relationships: Addy/John Wick
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	dream on a bed of knives

_  
__Be careful,_ she’d said. She’d said it even though he was always careful, and they didn’t make those kinds of promises to each other. Still, he’d nodded, said yeah, let her have that.

And he had been careful, it seemed — there wasn’t a scratch on him as far as Addy could tell — but then, the lights were low, and he was still dressed. So. She ran a finger over his lapel (damp; it’d been raining hard for days) and tugged at it. “Take this off.” He did, and then the rest of it followed, methodically: the tie unknotted, the shirt draped neatly over the back of a chair. She made a show of sprawling out across the bed to watch him and caught his eyes roaming over her in turn, appreciatively. “What happened tonight?” 

“Nothing of note,” John said. Out came the handgun, a couple of knives, set down on the bedside table next to his watch, phone, wallet. She’d figured; tonight’s job was more of an errand than a job. “Maintenance, I guess. Threats. Dick-measuring contest.” His distaste was clear; intimidation wasn’t his style. He found it embarrassing, she thought. 

“Come here,” she murmured and they switched places. John was good, sat and didn’t try to touch her, just waited. She let it drag on for a second or two longer than was really necessary, just to see if she could make him squirm at all, unbalance him even a little. But he always did what she asked; that was kind of the point. And it was dangerous to let herself think she could get used to it. 

He knew better than to let her pick up one of the knives, turn it over in her hand a few times, but he didn’t stop her. Didn’t stop her settling into his lap. Tip of the knife careful careful careful under his chin, just to make him look at her (a stupid, dramatic gesture; she’d seen too many movies). “And you were thinking of me.” 

“You made sure of that, yeah,” John agreed, glanced down at the rope criss-crossing his chest and shoulders, a network of neat ink-black lines. Nothing elaborate, nothing his suit wouldn’t conceal. Just a reminder. 

And she _had_ made sure, had thought she knew what she was doing but it hit her again anew, that he’d gone to _work_ like this. She had no idea how he’d managed to keep it together; knew she wouldn’t have been able to do the same, if their positions were reversed.

It was stupid to use the knife for this. She had shears somewhere and they were safer, and quicker besides, but that required getting up, and she wasn’t about to move. Mirroring what she’d done earlier she started to cut him loose, just slid the knife along his skin in one spot and then another, and another. She was very aware, she thought, of his pulse thrumming; thought of the way blood would well up, readily, from even the tiniest cut. Quiet hung heavy in the room; all she could hear was his breathing and the soft sound of rope hitting the carpet again and again, and the occasional rumble of thunder, far off. 

(Years from now, Addy would say she’d never seen him vulnerable, and it would be a lie.) 

After hours, days, it was done and there were just the faint impressions in his skin, the tangle of rope in pieces on the carpet, dropped somewhere into the dark ocean of floor beyond the reach of the lamplight. She dropped the knife, too, and he watched it fall: longingly, maybe? Another night she might have tried to dig into that — how sometimes it was guilt that drove them to each other, their fucked-up ideas of penance, abasement, absolution — but not tonight. She’d give him something, though, ran her fingertips along one of the rope marks on his chest and dug her nails in, quick, just a little shock to get a sound out of him. Could feel him getting hard underneath her. Even so, he had her number. “You _like_ this,” he murmured, a statement, and then: “Why?” 

Typical John, to throw her with a straightforward question when she wasn’t expecting it. She knew what she was supposed to say, what she should have said if she wanted to keep pretending she had the upper hand here. “I like you thinking about me when I’m not there.” 

( _Thinking about me when you’re —_ )

He was already touching her, she realized, his hand slipping underneath the hem of her shirt to find skin, thumb tracing circles over her hip, molasses-slow and maddening. Pretty fucking bold of him to do without permission but she didn’t care and it didn’t matter anyway; before she could blink he had her flat, caught both of her wrists in one hand, his solid weight pinning her to the bed. Addy could have laughed with the sheer surprise of it, and she didn’t, and instead her breath caught tellingly in her throat, and John smirked. Seemed huge above her, against her, hot and heavy and alive and the low light casting him strangely, his tattoos shaded gold and green. His eyes black, bottomless. “We’ll have to try it the other way around, sometime,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, but he kissed her then, and she sighed, and that was answer enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> ugh, these two. anyway, I'm 1973buickcentury on tumblr, come yell at me to write more or whatever, if you're into that.


End file.
